


First of May

by circuschickadee, queenmab_scherzo



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-18 01:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4687007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circuschickadee/pseuds/circuschickadee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab_scherzo/pseuds/queenmab_scherzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years is a long time to sit in a courtroom and argue over technical jargon when you could be on a flying trapeze. It will take some nudging, some support from his eccentric acrobat nephews, and a little help from social media guru Bilbo Baggins, but maybe, just maybe, Thorin "Oakenshield" Durin can get a real circus up and running by the first of May.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saudade

**Author's Note:**

> Saudade (n.)  
> Origin: Portuguese  
> A nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost; “the love that remains”

It was not a dramatic  _how does the jury find?_  finale. No gavels struck, no lawyers shouted, no bailiffs rattled their cuffs, no spectators wept. It was not a clash of titans or a defeat of epic proportions. It was not a thing of legend.

It ended, as ever, with a whisper of loose papers and a sigh. A nondescript brook, nothing but rainwater funneled into a lowland crevice, bubbling into nothing against a rocky hillside.

Balin stood with a grunt and buttoned his suit jacket. He passed a hand across his face as if to scrub away the dark circles under his eyes and the creases bunched over his brow. His client was a grim broad-shouldered man with dark hair streaked by gray, also wearing a suit, though of much lesser quality. He was not tall, but he carried himself as if he were tall.

Together they collected paperwork in guilty silence. Guilt, not of the extreme proportions normally associated with courtrooms, but of the silent injurious simmer that gnaws the joints of old friends who have let one another down.

The client cursed softly. When he reached for a pen, he fumbled and it clattered to the floor. He cursed again, louder this time, his calm facade crumbling. He clenched both fists and then swept from the room, his lawyer watching him go, forlorn, without a breath of argument left.

He yanked the door open and, just outside the courtroom, almost ran into a tall stranger.

"Excuse me," the client mumbled. In a split second, he took in the stranger; his ancient, faded overcoat which might once have been black; his impossibly long silver beard, and even more impossibly long eyebrows; the angle of his fedora; the hint of a smile permanently etched into the wrinkles of his face.

Though he meant to escape without further comment, the angry, defeated client felt his feet rooted into the tile floor.

The stranger spoke. "I thought I might find you here."

"I'm sorry?"

"My name is Gandalf."

"I don't believe we've met."

"We haven't," the stranger replied with an incongruous smile. "I knew your father."

"I don't have time for this. Pardon me," he said, only barely concealing his temper with a level voice. The stranger did not seem perturbed.

"Listen to me, Thorin Oakenshield."

The old epithet might have passed Gandalf's lips in exasperation—the way a weary mother addresses her needy child by first and middle name—but Thorin stopped short. Cold water swirled around his ankles and in his lungs as he saw his old stage name float to the surface, just out of reach, just where he never expected to see it again. Images of "Arkenstone" in flashing fluorescents, the trapeze and Frerin and the spotlights, the smell of damp sawdust and burnt sugar and diesel fumes. It all washed up gently against the shore of his memory.

He drew his shoulders back and turned to face Gandalf.

The old man took a seat, perching on the edge of a wooden bench, as calm as if he were simply here to read the paper and drink a coffee. He had removed the battered, colorless overcoat to reveal an impeccable gray suit with faint pinstripes. His tie was an embarrassing geometric pattern, the kind of eccentric statement piece no one can actually pull off—but which, remarkably, Gandalf seemed to pull off without effort.

"I'm listening."

"How long has it been, Thorin?"

That was when he started pacing.

"How long has  _what_  been?" he said, sweeping a path from Gandalf's bench to the window at the end of the corridor and back.

"It has been nine years."

"How do you know that?" Thorin snapped.

"Anyone can read a newspaper, Thorin," he said. "In fact I've worked for several. Your father's circus wasn't without its fame, a decade ago."

Thorin's eyes narrowed. "Are you one of Smaug's people?"

"Hardly." Gandalf made a show of brushing dust from his knee. "I put your grandfather on a magazine cover, once. I would say that I am, humbly, on your side."

"No one is on my side," Thorin said, his lip twisting bitterly.

"Almost ten years, Thorin. Six of those spent where?" Gandalf uncrossed and recrossed his legs. "Here. Here in these drab hallways with nothing to show for it but ink stains on your fingers."

"And what would you know about it?" Thorin growled. "Why would you care what I do?"

"I know that you will never get your father's show back this way, but that does not mean that you cannot run a very fine circus. Finer even than his ever was, perhaps. As for why I care—" the blue eyes under the improbable eyebrows twinkled, "—I have my reasons."

"I will not simply give up Arkenstone. It is my family's legacy!" Thorin's hands were clenched into fists, held in a carefully controlled way that showed just how much he longed to pound them against something. Or someone.

Gandalf tutted, shaking his head in disappointment. "Your family itself is your legacy, Thorin. That you still do have."

Thorin made a sound that might have been a bitter laugh.

"Do I? There wasn't very much of it left, last time I checked…"

"I believe you have two nephews of no small talent? I'm sure they would be overjoyed to join you. And what is Arkenstone, but a name?"

"It is more than a name!" Throin's eyes flashed with something cold and dangerous, "It stands for my family's honor, our heritage. And that-" he stopped in his tracks, unclenched his fists with a deliberate effort, and took a breath before continuing both his pacing and his train of thought. "Smaug spit on that name, defiled it."

Gandalf waved a hand, as if to brush away the lingering chill in Thorin's voice. "So choose a new name, something the public will recognize, something that reminds them that your family is still out there. What better way to defeat your enemy than by becoming wildly successful despite all he has done to block your path?"

The silence and the scowl that followed wasn't exactly agreement, but it wasn't a refusal either. For a few long moments, they both stayed as they where: Thorin pacing, and Gandalf leaning back against the wall as if this were the most delightful place to spend his Wednesday afternoon.

"You have fought long and hard, Thorin Oakenshield. Now you must look instead towards the future."

The old man sounded like a motivational poster in any of the many run down legal offices Thorin had visited over the years. And yet, the words struck a cord that thrummed against his nerves, an itch and a comfort at the same time.

He could still remember the flames, saw them sometimes when he closed his eyes at night. Circus tents didn't truly  _burn_  any more, not like they did when they were still made of cotton waterproofed with paraffin, but they did melt, shriveling and dripping into nothing. And everything flammable inside of the tent had burned that night: the curtain, the ring boxes, the wooden seating boards. His family's reputation and heritage and livelihood.

That loss was still raw and gnawing, eating at his roots.

"It is time to  _start_  again. You miss it, being on the road, breathing the free air. You weren't meant to be stationary, Thorin." Gandalf leaned forward slightly, resting his clasped hands on his knee. "The world is becoming darker by the day, and it needs bright things to remind people of the joy in life. I believe you can do that."

"I'll gather up the old company," Thorin said, his voice soft. His pacing slowed to a crawl. It might have been mistaken for begrudgement, that final low assent, might have even fooled Thorin himself, who would never admit the sorrow that lay across his heart. He would simply endure it. He had always endured it. "Maybe together …" he trailed off.

"You need a tour director."

Thorin's pacing sped up, his strides lengthening and his eyes roaming the floor. "A what?"

"A tour director."

"No."

If Thorin's presence was a bubble of anxiety, Gandalf was a breath of still repose. The calm eye, overcast, pinstriped, amid Thorin's storm. He inspected a fingernail and waited for Thorin to communicate more than one syllable at a time.

He completed a few more laps. Other passersby clicked away importantly, while the dull thud of Thorin's shoes on the tile betrayed their low quality.

The next time he passed Gandalf, he said, "Why?"

Progress, but not, apparently, worth a response from Gandalf. Thorin's unceasing prowl continued unbroken—into the shaft of light dancing through the window, then back under the little brass plates marking each courtroom's number, twelve, ten, eight, then back again, out of the shadows, eight, ten, twelve.

Gandalf pulled out his pipe and tapped it against his knee.

Thorin came to a halt before Gandalf so suddenly that he might have kicked up dust if the building were not so immaculately swept. "I have plenty of friends in this business. Loyal friends. Honorable friends."

"You can never have too many friends."

"Why should I trust strangers to run my show?"

"I didn't say that he would run your show."

Thorin took a deep breath. He did not look at Gandalf when he spoke, but rather lifted his chin and gazed toward the bright window at the end of the corridor. "What use would I have for a tour director?"

"You need a proper presence in the media."

For some time, Thorin didn't speak. Nothing in his body language indicated that he had even heard Gandalf, although the bright pinprick of his eyes flickered, a pulse of oxygen in the last embers buried beneath charred wood.

"Media presence," he muttered, apparently to no one. After several more minutes of silence, he turned to Gandalf and crossed his arms. His voice danced across the checkered tile like ash in a winter wind.

"Find me a tour director, and I will give you a circus to rival the old Arkenstone."

"Done." When Gandalf smiled, his face burst with twice as many wrinkles.

"A circus to rival Arkenstone?" Balin shuffled into their midst then, straightening a stack of file folders and loose forms. "Have I missed something?" he asked weakly.

Gandalf swept to his feet and donned his old coat. "You must be Balin!" Gandalf held out a hand, and Balin had to shift his papers in order to shake it. "My deepest apologies, but I fear I've just lost you a client," Gandalf added.

Balin shook his head and looked between Thorin and Gandalf in bewilderment.

"He's right," Thorin shrugged. "I'm afraid I'm not looking for a lawyer, just now."

"Not looking for …"

"But I seem to be in need of a production manager."

Balin's face lit up.


	2. Schwellenangst

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Schwellenangst (n.)  
> Origin: German  
> Fear of embarking upon something new; fear of crossing a threshold.

Bilbo Baggins lived on the third story of a decent Hobbiton apartment building with a quiet cat and quieter neighbors, and he liked it very much. It wasn't a nasty, hole-in-the-wall flat with shabby radiators, nor yet was it the kind of upscale flat you expect yourself to live in by the time you're thirty and supposedly successful.

It was affordable, and more importantly, it was comfortable. He was proud to say he hadn't had to use his window air-conditioning unit since his birthday.

Bilbo arrived home late, as usual, and went through the ritual of hanging his keys on a hook next to the front door, toeing off his shoes, and shuffling into the kitchen to switch on the kettle. Twenty minutes later he was settled in his mossy armchair—the one in dire need of re-upholstering in the face of oversentimentality—with a mug of milky tea, feet up on the coffee table, laptop resting on a throw-pillow to keep it from burning his thighs.

He flicked on the television and watched a few commercials. Doritos, local theater, upcoming fantasy film, Subway. When the program came back on, Bilbo lowered the volume and turned back to his MacBook.

At this time of night, he would typically empty his inbox in one go and then refuse to check it again until morning. He worked nearly around the clock as it was. Advertising never sleeps, you know. Plus it takes him about half an hour to work through his inbox on a given night, which is enough work from home, especially after the sun has set and the late-night newscasters have signed off.

He's half-way through a response to one of his favorite non-profits when his phone and computer both ding at him. "Ding" isn't really the word—it's more of a bird chirping. It's a bad pun.

Bilbo sets his tea down and trades it for his mobile. Twitter has one of the best apps out there, might as well use it. Better than slogging through the internet and the seventeen tabs he has open, anyway.

He swipes at the notification and stares at it for a moment, brow furrowing.

 _ **Gandalf** _ _@gandalfthegrey_

 _@bilbobaggins I'_ _m looking for someone to share in an adventure_

It's the kind of mad nonsense at which Bilbo would normally roll his eyes before reporting it as spam. "Gandalf," just the one name, like Prince or Cher, but without the platinum albums to back it up. What got Bilbo's attention, and deepened the wrinkles in his forehead, was the little blue checkmark next to "@gandalfthegrey". Bilbo trusted that checkmark. The checkmark doesn't lie.

So he braced both feet on the floor and sat up straight in his armchair and clicked on the Twitter handle. This led him to Gandalf's homepage, where the cover photo was a pretty but indistinct photo of a landscape. The profile picture depicted an old man whom Bilbo did not recognize and whose eyebrows overwhelmed most of the small pixel space. His description read, unhelpfully, "I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me." As for the content of his page, most if it consisted of retweets, subject matter varying from movie trailers and sports articles to celebrity chef recipes and photographs of baby animals. Bilbo only saw two original tweets. One read "This is only the third time i've sat behind a celebrity on an airplane! #butterflies"; the second was simply a string of emojis.

He felt as if he should recognize this person, but couldn't put a finger on why.

Maybe it was that checkmark. In Bilbo's line of business, you didn't just ignore contact from important people, even on minimalistic social media, even if the important person makes contact in cryptic non sequitur.

Not wanting to sound rude, but also not wanting to get involved with mysterious internet stalkers, Bilbo tweeted back a simple, "Thanks for thinking of me! But i'm quite bogged down with clients atm".

The stranger's response is almost immediate.

_**Gandalf**  @gandalfthegrey_

_@bilbobaggins BIG fan of your twitter, blog, facebook, website, bio, etc. You're just what we're looking for!_

Now, it was this point at which, looking back, Bilbo would feel the smallest bit ashamed, because this Gandalf person was hitting all the buzzwords—social media, referring to himself as a "we"—and Bilbo wasn't immune to flattery. He began to think of profits and exposure and bank account deposits and the kinds of things you aren't supposed to think about when someone asks for your business. Bilbo Baggins is a capable employee of a well-established advertising firm. He wouldn't dream of doing things for the money.

But in a moment of weakness, that is where his mind leapt first.

Then he composed himself and pondered the consequences of humoring strangers on the internet.

The cat head butted his ankle. Bilbo gave her an absent-minded scratch behind the ear as he composed a reply.

_**Bilbo Baggins**  @bilbobaggins_

_@gandalfthegrey I'm always looking for strong new clients, i'd just have to hear what they're looking for!_

Feeling satisfied in his vagueness, Bilbo sat back in his chair again and turned the volume up to watch the next batch of commercials. Two repeated from the last break.

His computer chirped with another notification.

_**Gandalf**  @gandalfthegrey_

_@bilbobaggins what do you think of experiments? entertainment? events? travel? largish animals?_

This was getting ridiculous. Professionals do not conduct business on social media platforms for all the public to gawp at. Not to mention that last tweet put forth minimal explanation at best. Bilbo felt simultaneously enticed and wary—"largish animals"?—and with every new tweet, became more acutely aware of the time passing. Almost eleven and he still had a mountain of emails to climb.

Honestly, though, large  _animals?_

_**Bilbo Baggins**  @bilbobaggins_

_@gandalfthegrey maybe you should contact me via email to make a formal request. You can find contact info at theshire.co.uk/bilbobaggins_

Again, the response came in the blink of an eye.

_**Gandalf**  @gandalfthegrey_

_@bilbobaggins it would be very good for you! and very amusing for me_

"Very amusing for me." Couldn't make heads or tails of that.

Maybe it was weak of him, but Bilbo didn't respond. Wasn't sure _how_ , honestly. Instead, he traveled over to his favorite Twitter account, one that belonged to a wildly popular radio DJ/internet personality who went by "@bardthebowman". Apparently it was a pun in honor of his spectacular fashion sense and his university days as a competitive archer. Bilbo took a moment to admire the bowtie in Bard's profile picture, wishing he also had a catchy, creative pseudonym, or fashion sense, or the remotest figment of athletic prowess. But he was just good old "@bilbobaggins". 

Bilbo scrolled down Bard's homepage and noted that he's uploaded a new vlog. Something he should watch later. Bilbo kept up with Bard's updates and may or may not have spent lunch hours daydreaming scripts to his own YouTube videos. He never thought he could maintain Bard's calm, polished veneer.

Bilbo _wanted_ to watch that video right there, that night, but the day's work was already careening out of sight, what with all these Gandalf distractions. Bilbo sighed--something that sounded almost like a groan--and hunched farther into his armchair.

It was nearing midnight by the time Bilbo had sifted through all his business emails. For some reason his breakfast cereal client expressed disappointment in their most recent line of television ads. Something about the cartoon pony's accent? It was actually a little unclear, and at the end of the day, Bilbo Baggins had nothing to do with production logistics, so was it necessary to CC him in every trivial complaint? Maybe he shouldn't go in for the largish animals. He was having enough problems with fictional horses and their fumbling fake Cornish accents.

So the furnace had already kicked on by the time Bilbo snapped his laptop shut. (Late October, which is great for most things, but also heralds the season of heating bills.)

He checked the lock on his door, turned out the lights, then checked the lock one more time. The cat pounced after a string dangling from one slipper as he trudged down the hall to his bedroom.

" _Now_  you want to play."

Bilbo brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face before untying his patchwork bathrobe and settling under a thick plaid quilt.

Then he proceeded to break a personal rule. He reached for his iPhone, slid it off the nightstand, and checked his email.

No messages or correspondence of any kind from any Gandalf. Not yet.

He reread the Twitter conversation on his mobile and gazed at his ceiling and thought about all the unread books on his shelf, his lovely, safe advertising firm, his plump gray tabby cat called Myrtle, and blue checkmarks.

* * *

 Three days later, there came a sharp knock on Bilbo’s front door. Odd.

His cat immediately abandoned her perch on the back of his armchair, dropped to the floor with a thud, and ambled into the narrow front hall. Bilbo followed her more cautiously. The only visitors he has ever had to his flat were his cousins, and that was two years ago, and Lobelia stuffed half his mother’s antique silverware in her purse after a brief dinner and supremely awkward conversation. He wrote her, emailed her, and called her about that silverware, too, but gave up after about four months of making and then canceling plans.

The only people who knew he lived here were those cousins and his landlord, an older middle-aged man named Took with enough boisterous personality to spare for every last one of his tenants. 

There's also Bilbo's cat, of course, who was clearly growing impatient by his hesitation. The guest knocked again, and Myrtle responded with a low half-purr, half-meow.

Bilbo lifted a finger to his lips. Myrtle meowed louder.

Bracing himself with a deep breath, Bilbo straightened his shoulders and reached for the door handle.

“Hello, there!”

Two stocky men filled his doorway. Before Bilbo could sputter out a "how can I help you," they shouldered past him on either side and began chattering with the obvious familiarity of old friends, openly commenting on Bilbo's flat as if he were not standing in the room.

"What lovely chinaware!"

"--smells good--"

"--hello there, cat!--"

"--said there would be food--"

"--in time for biscuits--"

Bilbo stared, open-mouthed, as the two strange men made themselves at home in his ... home.

One of the men, taller than Bilbo though not by much, had a handsomely trimmed beard, hooked nose, and dark hair threatening to grey. His heavy work boots rattled the rickety legs of Bilbo's kitchen furniture and--of course. Of course they tracked mud across his hardwood floor. Of course.

The other man had pure white hair and a matching beard, but his twinkling eyes and spry step belied his age. He wore finer clothing than his companion, but didn't carry himself with the same gravitas; while he seemed very amiable and at ease, the younger man bore himself as if carved out of a mountainside.

"Excuse me--" Bilbo protested, flutter after the two men, "--but I don't ... know you? Do I? There seems to have been a mistake!"

His unwelcome guests paused in their banter and stared at him for half a moment before the white-haired man stepped forwards, beaming kindly and seemingly oblivious to Bilbo's discomfort.  


"Of course, how rude of us not to introduce ourselves. I'm Balin, Balin Fundin, at your service," he said, one hand over his heart. "My companion is Thorin Durin."

The other man nodded in a manner that could only be called 'regal.'

"Yes, uh, pleasure to meet you, I'm Bilbo--"

"--Baggins, yes, we know," Thorin said, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked Bilbo up and down, curling his lip as if he found what was before him to be supremely lacking in some, if not all, desirable qualities. Bilbo caught himself feeling very aware of the threadbare state of his slippers as he shuffled under the weight of Thorin's gaze.  


Then a spark of indignation pricked him. How dare these strangers barge in like this and start giving his (perhaps not beautiful, but perfectly comfortable and practical) slippers such disdainful looks? He crossed his own arms, and glared at both men.

"Look, I don't mean to be rude, but what exactly are you doing here? And how is it that you know my name, when I'm quite sure that I've never met either of you?"

"Ah yes, that would likely be my doing."  


All three of them turned, Bilbo with a definite twitch of surprise. There was a man standing on the threshold of his living room, dressed in a pinstriped suit and wearing a fedora. Bilbo gaped at him and wondered fleetingly if he was being robbed by the most elderly and dapper burglars in history. He carefully slipped a hand into his pocket, clutching his phone and wondering how he could call the police without alerting his intruders.  


Then something nudged his memory. He had seen those impressive eyebrows somewhere before, and recently, too...

"You!" he exclaimed, his mouth dropping open, "You're that 'Gandalf' character, who contacted me on Twitter a few days ago. About 'largish animals,' or something absurd like that!"

Gandalf seemed delighted. "Quite right, quite right," he said, grinning. He removed his jacket and draped it over the back of Bilbo's armchair.

"You know where I live?!"

Gandalf waved a hand as if major breaches of individual privacy were trivial matters to him. "This saves us time," he said. "And time will be a major factor in our endeavors."

"Our?" Bilbo parroted.

"Indeed." Gandalf's eyes twinkled. "You are just the person we need to get on the road."

"On the road?" 

Thorin interrupted with a pointed cough. "I'm sorry, Gandalf," he said, one eyebrow raised. "But does he really look like he'll ... ah ... _fit in_ with my company?"

Bilbo found himself feeling indignant even though he didn't exactly know what kind of "company" Thorin ran. "Excuse me! I can hold my own, you know! With ... lots of things. Including largish animals!"

Thorin's eyebrow climbed higher.

"You told me to find you a tour director," Gandalf stepped in. "Here he is. He already has an established platform in the media world; you have a platform in the circus world. You'll make an excellent team."

"The _what_ world?!" 

"It's best to get him involved early, of course," Gandalf continued as if there were no interruption. "He can begin on social media, establish a website, get a blog up and running. Generate interest."

"Oh," Thorin said, resting his hands on his hips. "He's a blogger."

"I'm not a _blogger_ ," Bilbo protested. "I work for an extremely prestigious advertising firm, thank you very--"

"Perfect!" Balin said. "Now we'd like you to work for us!"

"Who is _us_?!" Bilbo cried, his voice rising in pitch and cracking in frustration. 

At first, no one answered him. Gandalf, Thorin, and Balin all cast glances at one another with varying expressions of sympathy and skepticism.

"We are going to start a circus."

First, Bilbo felt faint. Second, he felt extraordinarily bewildered. He couldn't reconcile the men before him, these solemn statues, with circus clowns and big top tents. It was like opening a dusty leather-bound tome to pages filled with fantastic, colorful illustrations.

"A circus. As in, big tent, funny costumes and such."

"Well, there's a bit more to it than that," Balin said. "But yes."

"And you want me to, what, exactly?"

"As Gandalf said, promote the show, help us with the advertising and so on. You did say that that was your specialty, did you not?"

"Mmm." A circus. Well, he had had some rather strange clients over the years. There had been that one firm, determined to market its brand of stretchy toy frogs as some kind of high-end collectible. If he could pull that off...

"Of course, accommodation can be provided, unless you choose to supply your own caravan."

Bilbo gaped at Balin. "Wait, what? Accommodation?"

Gandalf cleared his throat. "Yes, well, of course you would need to travel with the show. What better way to give the public an in-depth, behind-the-scenes look at the inner workings of a modern circus than to actually travel with one?"

"I can't just pack up and leave, go haring off on some mad adventure!"

Both Gandalf and Balin opened their mouths to argue, and Bilbo noticed with some annoyance that Thorin looked smug about his reaction, but he shook his head before anyone could argue.

"No, no, look, I appreciate you thinking of me, but my answer is no." Bilbo began ushering them towards the door, perhaps a bit more forcefully than his manners would usually allow. "If you'd like to make a formal inquiry through my employers, I would be more than happy work with you, but I am not taking on an independent contract to wander the countryside in a caravan."

By now the three men were clustered on the landing outside of Bilbo's apartment.

"Well," Gandalf said, seeming almost suspiciously unperturbed, "There was no harm in asking. Enjoy your evening, Bilbo!" He tipped his hat (who did that anymore?) and disappeared down the stairs, the other two men following behind him.

Bilbo closed the door and leaned against it. At his feet, Myrtle meowed a question at him.

"I have no idea, Myrtle." He wasn't entirely sure what she'd been asking, but it didn't matter. He felt so flustered that that would have been his answer to just about anything she could have asked. If she could actually ask him questions. Which she couldn't. Because she was a cat.

Bilbo really needed a good cup of tea, and maybe a snack to settle his nerves.

It wasn't until he came back into the living room ten minutes later, tea in hand, that he saw the little silver-gray card sitting on the back of his armchair where Gandalf's jacket had been. There was a phone number on the front, and on the the back, in fancy, looping handwriting, was written:

"In case you change your mind."

**Author's Note:**

> we have tumblrs and we occasionally post cute circus pictures! follow us at circuschickadee and queenmabscherzo.


End file.
